Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (467 page)

“I wished to ask you, Jim Harrison, whether you would undertake to be my champion in the fight against Crab Wilson of Gloucester?” said my uncle.

“That is what I want, Sir Charles - to have a chance of fighting my way upwards.”

“There are heavy stakes upon the event - very heavy stakes,” said my uncle.  “You will receive two hundred pounds, if you win.  Does that satisfy you?”

“I shall fight for the honour, and because I wish to be thought worthy of being matched against Jem Belcher.”

Belcher laughed good-humouredly.

“You are going the right way about it, lad,” said he.  “But you had a soft thing on to-night with a drunken man who was out of condition.”

“I did not wish to fight him,” said Jim, flushing.

“Oh, I know you have spirit enough to fight anything on two legs.  I knew that the instant I clapped eyes on you; but I want you to remember that when you fight Crab Wilson, you will fight the most promising man from the west, and that the best man of the west is likely to be the best man in England.  He’s as quick and as long in the reach as you are, and he’ll train himself to the last half-ounce of tallow.  I tell you this now, d’ye see, because if I’m to have the charge of you - “

“Charge of me!”

“Yes,” said my uncle.  “Belcher has consented to train you for the coming battle if you are willing to enter.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged to you,” cried Jim, heartily.  “Unless my uncle should wish to train me, there is no one I would rather have.”

“Nay, Jim; I’ll stay with you a few days, but Belcher knows a deal more about training than I do.  Where will the quarters be?”

“I thought it would be handy for you if we fixed it at the George, at Crawley.  Then, if we have choice of place, we might choose Crawley Down, for, except Molesey Hurst, and, maybe, Smitham Bottom, there isn’t a spot in the country that would compare with it for a mill.  Do you agree with that?”

“With all my heart,” said Jim.

“Then you’re my man from this hour on, d’ye see?” said Belcher.  “Your food is mine, and your drink is mine, and your sleep is mine, and all you’ve to do is just what you are told.  We haven’t an hour to lose, for Wilson has been in half-training this month back.  You saw his empty glass to-night.”

“Jim’s fit to fight for his life at the present moment,” said Harrison.  “But we’ll both come down to Crawley to-morrow.  So good night, Sir Charles.”

“Good night, Roddy,” said Jim.  “You’ll come down to Crawley and see me at my training quarters, will you not?”

And I heartily promised that I would.

“You must be more careful, nephew,” said my uncle, as we rattled home in his model
vis-à-vis.  “En première jeunesse
one is a little inclined to be ruled by one’s heart rather than by one’s reason.  Jim Harrison seems to be a most respectable young fellow, but after all he is a blacksmith’s apprentice, and a candidate for the prize-ring.  There is a vast gap between his position and that of my own blood relation, and you must let him feel that you are his superior.”

“He is the oldest and dearest friend that I have in the world, sir,” I answered.  “We were boys together, and have never had a secret from each other.  As to showing him that I am his superior, I don’t know how I can do that, for I know very well that he is mine.”

“Hum!” said my uncle, drily, and it was the last word that he addressed to me that night.

CHAPTER XII - THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG’
S

So Boy Jim went down to the George, at Crawley, under the charge of Jim Belcher and Champion Harrison, to train for his great fight with Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, whilst every club and bar parlour of London rang with the account of how he had appeared at a supper of Corinthians, and beaten the formidable Joe Berks in four rounds.  I remembered that afternoon at Friar’s Oak when Jim had told me that he would make his name known, and his words had come true sooner than he could have expected it, for, go where one might, one heard of nothing but the match between Sir Lothian Hume and Sir Charles Tregellis, and the points of the two probable combatants.  The betting was still steadily in favour of Wilson, for he had a number of bye-battles to set against this single victory of Jim’s, and it was thought by connoisseurs who had seen him spar that the singular defensive tactics which had given him his nickname would prove very puzzling to a raw antagonist.  In height, strength, and reputation for gameness there was very little to choose between them, but Wilson had been the more severely tested.

It was but a few days before the battle that my father made his promised visit to London.  The seaman had no love of cities, and was happier wandering over the Downs, and turning his glass upon every topsail which showed above the horizon, than when finding his way among crowded streets, where, as he complained, it was impossible to keep a course by the sun, and hard enough by dead reckoning.  Rumours of war were in the air, however, and it was necessary that he should use his influence with Lord Nelson if a vacancy were to be found either for himself or for me.

My uncle had just set forth, as was his custom of an evening, clad in his green riding-frock, his plate buttons, his Cordovan boots, and his round hat, to show himself upon his crop-tailed tit in the Mall.  I had remained behind, for, indeed, I had already made up my mind that I had no calling for this fashionable life.  These men, with their small waists, their gestures, and their unnatural ways, had become wearisome to me, and even my uncle, with his cold and patronizing manner, filled me with very mixed feelings.  My thoughts were back in Sussex, and I was dreaming of the kindly, simple ways of the country, when there came a rat-tat at the knocker, the ring of a hearty voice, and there, in the doorway, was the smiling, weather-beaten face, with the puckered eyelids and the light blue eyes.

“Why, Roddy, you are grand indeed!” he cried.  “But I had rather see you with the King’s blue coat upon your back than with all these frills and ruffles.”

“And I had rather wear it, father.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say so.  Lord Nelson has promised me that he would find a berth for you, and to-morrow we shall seek him out and remind him of it.  But where is your uncle?”

“He is riding in the Mall.”

A look of relief passed over my father’s honest face, for he was never very easy in his brother-in-law’s company.  “I have been to the Admiralty,” said he, “and I trust that I shall have a ship when war breaks out; by all accounts it will not be long first.  Lord St. Vincent told me so with his own lips.  But I am at Fladong’s, Rodney, where, if you will come and sup with me, you will see some of my messmates from the Mediterranean.”

When you think that in the last year of the war we had 140,000 seamen and mariners afloat, commanded by 4000 officers, and that half of these had been turned adrift when the Peace of Amiens laid their ships up in the Hamoaze or Portsdown creek, you will understand that London, as well as the dockyard towns, was full of seafarers.  You could not walk the streets without catching sight of the gipsy-faced, keen-eyed men whose plain clothes told of their thin purses as plainly as their listless air showed their weariness of a life of forced and unaccustomed inaction.  Amid the dark streets and brick houses there was something out of place in their appearance, as when the sea-gulls, driven by stress of weather, are seen in the Midland shires.  Yet while prize-courts procrastinated, or there was a chance of an appointment by showing their sunburned faces at the Admiralty, so long they would continue to pace with their quarter-deck strut down Whitehall, or to gather of an evening to discuss the events of the last war or the chances of the next at Fladong’s, in Oxford Street, which was reserved as entirely for the Navy as Slaughter’s was for the Army, or Ibbetson’s for the Church of England.

It did not surprise me, therefore, that we should find the large room in which we supped crowded with naval men, but I remember that what did cause me some astonishment was to observe that all these sailors, who had served under the most varying conditions in all quarters of the globe, from the Baltic to the East Indies, should have been moulded into so uniform a type that they were more like each other than brother is commonly to brother.  The rules of the service insured that every face should be clean-shaven, every head powdered, and every neck covered by the little queue of natural hair tied with a black silk ribbon.  Biting winds and tropical suns had combined to darken them, whilst the habit of command and the menace of ever-recurring dangers had stamped them all with the same expression of authority and of alertness.  There were some jovial faces amongst them, but the older officers, with their deep-lined cheeks and their masterful noses, were, for the most part, as austere as so many weather-beaten ascetics from the desert.  Lonely watches, and a discipline which cut them off from all companionship, had left their mark upon those Red Indian faces.  For my part, I could hardly eat my supper for watching them.  Young as I was, I knew that if there were any freedom left in Europe it was to these men that we owed it; and I seemed to read upon their grim, harsh features the record of that long ten years of struggle which had swept the tricolour from the seas.

When we had finished our supper, my father led me into the great coffee-room, where a hundred or more officers may have been assembled, drinking their wine and smoking their long clay pipes, until the air was as thick as the main-deck in a close-fought action.  As we entered we found ourselves face to face with an elderly officer who was coming out.  He was a man with large, thoughtful eyes, and a full, placid face - such a face as one would expect from a philosopher and a philanthropist, rather than from a fighting seaman.

“Here’s Cuddie Collingwood,” whispered my father.

“Halloa, Lieutenant Stone!” cried the famous admiral very cheerily.  “I have scarce caught a glimpse of you since you came aboard the
Excellent
after St. Vincent.  You had the luck to be at the Nile also, I understand?”

“I was third of the
Theseus,
under Millar, sir.”

“It nearly broke my heart to have missed it.  I have not yet outlived it.  To think of such a gallant service, and I engaged in harassing the market-boats, the miserable cabbage-carriers of St. Luccars!”

“Your plight was better than mine, Sir Cuthbert,” said a voice from behind us, and a large man in the full uniform of a post-captain took a step forward to include himself in our circle.  His mastiff face was heavy with emotion, and he shook his head miserably as he spoke.

“Yes, yes, Troubridge, I can understand and sympathize with your feelings.”

“I passed through torment that night, Collingwood.  It left a mark on me that I shall never lose until I go over the ship’s side in a canvas cover.  To have my beautiful
Culloden
laid on a sandbank just out of gunshot.  To hear and see the fight the whole night through, and never to pull a lanyard or take the tompions out of my guns.  Twice I opened my pistol-case to blow out my brains, and it was but the thought that Nelson might have a use for me that held me back.”

Collingwood shook the hand of the unfortunate captain.

“Admiral Nelson was not long in finding a use for you, Troubridge,” said he.  “We have all heard of your siege of Capua, and how you ran up your ship’s guns without trenches or parallels, and fired point-blank through the embrasures.”

The melancholy cleared away from the massive face of the big seaman, and his deep laughter filled the room.

“I’m not clever enough or slow enough for their Z-Z fashions,” said he.  “We got alongside and slapped it in through their port-holes until they struck their colours.  But where have you been, Sir Cuthbert?”

“With my wife and my two little lasses at Morpeth in the North Country.  I have but seen them this once in ten years, and it may be ten more, for all I know, ere I see them again.  I have been doing good work for the fleet up yonder.”

“I had thought, sir, that it was inland,” said my father.

Collingwood took a little black bag out of his pocket and shook it.

“Inland it is,” said he, “and yet I have done good work for the fleet there.  What do you suppose I hold in this bag?”

“Bullets,” said Troubridge.

“Something that a sailor needs even more than that,” answered the admiral, and turning it over he tilted a pile of acorns on to his palm.  “I carry them with me in my country walks, and where I see a fruitful nook I thrust one deep with the end of my cane.  My oak trees may fight those rascals over the water when I am long forgotten.  Do you know, lieutenant, how many oaks go to make an eighty-gun ship?”

My father shook his head.

“Two thousand, no less.  For every two-decked ship that carries the white ensign there is a grove the less in England.  So how are our grandsons to beat the French if we do not give them the trees with which to build their ships?”

He replaced his bag in his pocket, and then, passing his arm through Troubridge’s, they went through the door together.

“There’s a man whose life might help you to trim your own course,” said my father, as we took our seats at a vacant table.  “He is ever the same quiet gentleman, with his thoughts busy for the comfort of his ship’s company, and his heart with his wife and children whom he has so seldom seen.  It is said in the fleet that an oath has never passed his lips, Rodney, though how he managed when he was first lieutenant of a raw crew is more than I can conceive.  But they all love Cuddie, for they know he’s an angel to fight.  How d’ye do, Captain Foley?  My respects, Sir Ed’ard!  Why, if they could but press the company, they would man a corvette with flag officers.”

“There’s many a man here, Rodney,” continued my father, as he glanced about him, “whose name may never find its way into any book save his own ship’s log, but who in his own way has set as fine an example as any admiral of them all.  We know them, and talk of them in the fleet, though they may never be bawled in the streets of London.  There’s as much seamanship and pluck in a good cutter action as in a line-o’-battleship fight, though you may not come by a title nor the thanks of Parliament for it.  There’s Hamilton, for example, the quiet, pale-faced man who is learning against the pillar.  It was he who, with six rowing-boats, cut out the 44-gun frigate
Hermione
from under the muzzles of two hundred shore-guns in the harbour of Puerto Cabello.  No finer action was done in the whole war.  There’s Jaheel Brenton, with the whiskers.  It was he who attacked twelve Spanish gunboats in his one little brig, and made four of them strike to him.  There’s Walker, of the
Rose
cutter, who, with thirteen men, engaged three French privateers with crews of a hundred and forty-six.  He sank one, captured one, and chased the third.  How are you, Captain Ball?  I hope I see you well?”

Two or three of my father’s acquaintances who had been sitting close by drew up their chairs to us, and soon quite a circle had formed, all talking loudly and arguing upon sea matters, shaking their long, red-tipped pipes at each other as they spoke.  My father whispered in my ear that his neighbour was Captain Foley, of the
Goliath,
who led the van at the Nile, and that the tall, thin, foxy-haired man opposite was Lord Cochrane, the most dashing frigate captain in the Service.  Even at Friar’s Oak we had heard how, in the little
Speedy,
of fourteen small guns with fifty-four men, he had carried by boarding the Spanish frigate
Gamo
with her crew of three hundred.  It was easy to see that he was
a quick, irascible, high-blooded man, for he was talking hotly about his grievances with a flush of anger upon his freckled cheeks.

“We shall never do any good upon the ocean until we have hanged the dockyard contractors,” he cried.  “I’d have a dead dockyard contractor as a figure-head for every first-rate in the fleet, and a provision dealer for every frigate.  I know them with their puttied seams and their devil bolts, risking five hundred lives that they may steal a few pounds’ worth of copper.  What became of the
Chance,
and of the
Martin,
and of the
Orestes
?  They foundered at sea, and were never heard of more, and I say that the crews of them were murdered men.”

Lord Cochrane seemed to be expressing the views of all, for a murmur of assent, with a mutter of hearty, deep-sea curses, ran round the circle.

“Those rascals over yonder manage things better,” said an old one-eyed captain, with the blue-and-white riband for St. Vincent peeping out of his third buttonhole.  “They sheer away their heads if they get up to any foolery.  Did ever a vessel come out of Toulon as my 38-gun frigate did from Plymouth last year, with her masts rolling about until her shrouds were like iron bars on one side and hanging in festoons upon the other?  The meanest sloop that ever sailed out of France would have overmatched her, and then it would be on me, and not on this Devonport bungler, that a court-martial would be called.”